


Strange, Beauty

by susiephalange



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Past Abuse, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: From one tough place to another, Reader works as an engineer in the First Order, and catches the eye of General Armitage Hux.





	Strange, Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing. My heart bleeds for the characterisation of Hux in TLJ, I just want to give him hugs ... #HUGS4HUX

When the First Order recruited the factory that you worked for, there was no possible answer to it other than being _yes_ and surviving. Not that you were a resistance-follower, no. The only qualm you had was that before working for the factory, you had been sold into slavery by your own family, and kept against your will. Now, instead of wearing a hand-sewn sack-like uniform, you were outfitted in the standard First Order uniform, and instead of working on Florrum, you were aboard one of the starships. But there was no time to think of your position in life, or wonder wistfully if you could be elsewhere – there was only work, and then, when there was no work, there was sleep.

You were assigned to a sector of the _Subjugator_ where you worked as a mechanic, following the guidelines assigned by droids to complete tasks. It was still known for human labour to still be highly coveted – in a world where droids all had a sole purpose, sometimes it paid to have people working around the clock. So, you did what you did best; ignoring everything else but your job, and did the best work you could until you were allowed a rest.

It was just that which caused your blunder.

It was on a changing of shifts where you had worked so efficiently, your supervisor, a formidable man, noticed your work. You had no idea what you had done wrong, and within days, you were referred to a superior officer, who then granted you a promotion.

“Congratulations,” the superior officer shook your hand, and passed you a standard-appearing package. “Not many mechanics have the chance of proving themselves to become engineers.”

That was five years ago.

“_________, I swear, we’re getting too old to be single.” Your friend Osira, a fellow engineer, smacked your arm playfully. You were on the walk from the dining hall to the lounge, savouring what spare time after a shift on Zhellday had to offer before curfew, and then work on Benduday. “I for one, intend on working on getting someone.”

You raised an eyebrow. Osira Westmore was no stranger to ‘getting someone’. But then again, her home planet and culture spent before signing up to the First Order was quite colourful with its parings, and she was no stranger to relationships. For her, it was the simple factor of getting someone, and _keeping_ them. For you, it was the opposite.

“Good for you,” you tell her, siding up to the small bar in the lounge. It was indeed small – manned by a droid on one end, mixing drinks, and a bartender attending to orders. “You’re the kind of woman who goes and gets things done when she wants, and I congratulate you.”

Osira _harrumphs_ at that, and wastes no time ordering a row of Tipples for herself, knocking them back as soon as she gets them. She blinks, dazed momentarily, and asks, “So, what are you working on? And don’t say plans for improving stormtrooper blasters, y–you incorrigible girl.”

She slurs the last part, and you laugh, ordering a sparkling water. “Incorrigible, am I?” You repeat, taking a sip. “I’m just doing my job. Following orders.”

An alarm sounds throughout the lounge, a fifteen-minute warning until curfew is put into place. Osira flags the bartender hearing it, and orders another round of Tipples. “Yeah, you rule-following killjoy. You’d have thought, of all the people I could befriend, I get the one who doesn’t want to colour outside the lines.” As her Tipples arrive, Osira wastes no time downing them.

Your fingers uncurl from your glass. “Well, I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.” you tell her, and gathering yourself, walk off toward your room. “See you tomorrow, Westmore.”

On the walk back to your rooms, you try your best to not take her words to heart, and take the quickest route as to not break curfew. _Rule-following killjoy_. You’re too busy trying to get back to your room, and do not see a man in the upcoming crossroads of the corridors, and it’s entirely your fault when you both smack into one another, and the Datapad he’s holding flies out from his hands, and smacks the metallic wall with a _thud_.

“Do watch where you’re going!” he snaps, irate.

Your eyes are wide, and heart going so fast you’re afraid it’ll stop beating within your chest. You, a lowly engineer, have walked right into the path of the General himself, and not only that, have possibly broken his Datapad.

“I’m very s-sorry sir,” you amend with a stammer, bowing your head as you hurry to stand before your superior officer. He stands as well, dusting his slacks. You dive once more to gather the Datapad to save him from bending to do so, and hand it to him. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“I should hope so.” General Hux nods curtly, and adds, “What is your name and rank, officer?”

You swallow, hearing the worst in his tone. By asking for those, you know he’s going to report you to your supervisor, and then you’ll suffer a demotion, and there was no way you’d go back to a mechanic, not when you’re now working on greater things. But you know the penalty for not obeying a direct order from a superior officer, and you acquiesce.

“I am _________, sir, _________ _________. Engineer.” You stand to attention, all-but saluting him. It’s then the second, and last curfew reminder sounds throughout the halls, and your eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I can’t overstep curfew.” You excuse yourself, raising your hand in a weak salute, and flee.

* * *

It’s next Benduday when you see him again, and a week later, you’re still trying to keep your cool about the encounter. While work has been excitable – gossip around the ship told of a soon to be rebel uprising – it hasn’t been enough to keep busy with both your hands, and your mind, and while you’re not trying to get the face of the disgruntled General out from your mind, you’re swatting Osira off, trying to stop her from asking too many questions about your disposition for the last week.

It gets too much, and discreetly, before your supervisor catches on, you tell her. “Last Zhellday, after you called me…those things, I ran into General Hux.”

Her eyes grow wider than a moon. “How are you still alive? I heard he’s ruthless!”

You shake your head, remembering how brash he was, at first – commanding, harsh. But you could have sworn that after he asked for your name, the edge had come off from his voice, and you weren’t talking to a terribly stressed general, but just simply, a man.

“No, no, the other one’s that,” you correct Osira, “You mean the one who wears all black, and choked Darryl from maintenance last week. Kylo Ren.”

“Engineers _________, Westmore!” your supervisor snapped, marching toward you both. “May I remind you that you are contracted for designing construction for the First Order, not talking?” He narrows his eyes. “Consider this you first, and final warning before punishment and or demotion, officers.”

“Yes sir.” You said. Osira agreed.

You both returned to working on the calculations for the new weaponised planet. It wasn’t until the day had ended that you spoke once more, or really, looked at your friend (you really did fear punishment and or demotion, and did not take it lightly). But when you did, it was not to Osira, at all, or your supervisor.

It was him. General Hux.

Luckily for you, this time, you weren’t running late for curfew, and you did not knock into him again. Osira had organised a date for herself (“She’s a Stormtrooper, and likes Corellian wine too,” she said) and left alone, you were sitting in the main congregation area for the _Subjugator_ , nursing a glass of white alcohol, and reading the day’s unread reports upon your Datapad.

“Mind if I join you, Engineer?” An educated voice intoned. Only glancing up from the reports, you realised it was General Hux. He wore his greatcoat, and dark uniform, and had a tumbler of whiskey in hand. When you did not protest, he sat beside you on the lounge.

“Please forgive me for asking,” you tell him, aware that you’re talking to _the_ leader of the First Order, “but why are you on the _Subjugator_? I thought your main vessel was the _Finalizer_.”

Hux considered your question, and replied, “It’s for an inspection,” he nurses his drink close to his chest, and adds, “Although, I’m not here on business.” You raised a brow, turning off your Datapad to pay full attention to him. “I’ve only just had the time to consider your history. If I should say, you’ve lived a strange life.”

You raised your glass to your lips, somewhat amused. If the General of the First Order believed that, then, well, it must be true; for you, it was just your life. “It all began with a farm on Ryloth, that had no animals.” You looked down, only now remembering all the suffering you’d gone through before you’d been rescued by the First Order, and placing your half-empty wine beside where you sat, you rose to leave. “Please excuse me, General, it’s been quite a long day.”

* * *

It was a year later when the weaponised planet came to fruition. Life got very busy – the weapon’s plans went into action, and building a planet from metal and mathematics took time and sleepless nights. But in the end, it’s construction was a marvel – breathtaking. Named Starkiller Base, you were one of the first to be assigned from your division to it. Whilst working on it, you were promoted to an architectural role, and luckily because of your career advancement, had access to the evacuation pods and escaped the inferno.

All that hard work, and still, the rebels managed to ruin it.

It was another four months after the destruction of Starkiller Base when you crossed paths with General Hux once again. Supreme Leader Snoke had been killed, and his student Kylo Ren had inherited the title. Jedi master Luke Skywalker had died, but still the Jedi religion prevailed. While the rebels were nearly crushed within an inch of their life, they _still_ found a way to survive. With every win, came a loss, and as much as you disliked it, you were sure the General felt the same way.

You saw him in the hallways of the _Finalizer_ , late at night. The day shift had turned to night, and walking to your own quarters, you heard a whimper, a sort of lost noise nearby. Even though it had been years since your days at the factory, your heart went out to every mistreated soul like you had been, and unable to stop, you sought out the person who was in pain.

General Hux stood in front of the entrance to his quarters, leaning on the wall at an awkward angle, hands wrapped around his midsection. You let out a sigh. Not waiting for his approval, you opened the code pad for his door and hotwired it to open.

“Come on.” You tell him, offering your arm. “You don’t look so good, General.”

He accepts your help, and you walk him into his quarters. They’re the same as your own, apart from a small living area and desk adjacent to a personal kitchenette. Walking him in, you get Hux to sit upon the small couch, and waste no time searching the room for a medical kit.

“What – are you doing?” He asks, slightly out of breath.

Having found the kit, you take it over to where he sits. “You’re injured, sir.” You tell him, and you know he already knows that detail. The fact that he has colour in his cheeks, and real emotion upon his face is enough of a tell, even if you couldn’t see the way he favoured his side, and middle. You begin to undo his jacket, and pushing it from his shoulders, he recoils.

“What _are_ you doing?” he asks, aghast.

You raise your eyebrows. “When I was a slave, I had to treat a lot of the other children for the abuse we got, sir,” you tell him, not touching the subject of your General being somewhat repulsed by being undressed by another person. “If this is the work of the new Supreme Leader, there will need to be medical attention as soon as possible. I could get a droid in –,”

He groaned. “Just – take my damn shirt off, _________.” He grits his teeth.

You do so, and laying him down, see the damage. From what your probing finger can tell of the tender flesh of his stomach and chest, there are a few bruised ribs, and kidneys. The skin is turning green and blue where it hurts the most upon him, and his left wrist seems to be completely out of action. Perhaps broken when he took a fall.

“Oh, General,” you whispered.

He couldn’t look at you. “It’s regular, now. There’s nobody to keep his anger upon a leash now.” His voice crackles, and you see tears start to fall from his crystalline eyes. “I – I don’t know what to do.”

“General –,” you begin to say, fingers moving to touch his shoulder.

“Armitage,” he corrects you, meeting your eyes. “_________, what do I do?”

You consider your words before you say them. “Confront, or cower.” You tell him. “It’s either one or the other, there is no midground between them. You can be the General that the First Order and whole galaxy knows you to be, or a boy.” You cradle his face, and whisper. “I cowered, when I was small…a word of advice, though, it never helped me.”

Armitage makes a noise, and moves to sit. “How do I know I can be strong enough to do that?”

“I’m not quite sure,” you whisper. Slowly, you kiss your fingers, and place them upon his chest, where his heart lays beneath the surface. “But, you’ve always got me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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